Just Wait Until he Calls Your Name
by ObookNorth
Summary: Someone is interfering with John Watson's timeline.  This story involves multiple Doctors who interfere with the events in the Sherlock TV series timeline to make it more Johnlocky for a reason that will be made clear near the end of the story.
1. Chapter 1

(Would just like to say: This story starts out slow. It's primarily a Johnlock story, and follows the events of the Sherlock TV series, with multiple Doctors interfering with John Watson's timeline to convince him to become more attached to Sherlock Holmes quicker. There's not a lot of spacey/timey travel in the beginning, but there will be some cool stuff at the end when we figure out why exactly The Doctor keeps interfering with John. I own neither Sherlock, nor Doctor Who.)

John huffed a breath as he entered Regent's park. His shoulder hurt, his hand was shaking, and he could barely drag his leg. He squared his shoulders as much as possible, and narrowed his vision. It was a nice enough day, green grass, blue sky,a little bracing damp in the air, the kind of day he had come back to England for.

He staggered backwards as he almost ran into a man with a long camel colored trench coat and pinstripe suit, and a shock of brown hair. And... was he wearing converse? Bit of an odd match up there. He was leaning heavily against an old fashioned Police Box that John really didn't recall being there, and holding his leg, which seemed to be worse off than John's.

"Christ, are you all right? I'm a doctor, I can help."

The man grinned, but it quickly turned into a grimace. "No worry, I'm a doctor too. Well, The Doctor. Hello there. Tell me, what year is it?"

Dr. Watson flicked a tongue over his lips, and looked cautiously into the man's eyes. They seemed focused enough... it didn't look like a concussion. "Well, er, it's 2009, isn't it? January 29th?"

"Brilliant." The other man patted him on his shoulder; the good one, John noticed, as if he had met him before. "Tell you what mate, I bet it's going to be a great year."

John blinked, then grinned at the other 'Doctor'. "I suppose, if you like boring."

"What do you mean?"

"Nothing ever happens to me."

"Oh, I don't know about that. So long as you LET it happen."

Oh, I suppose things just happen to ex army pensioners with a limp?" John joke wryly. "Look, I can at least get you to a cab."

""Don't worry, got one. Go, he needs you. I need to be getting back."

John quirked both his eyebrows at the 'he needs you' line, but shrugged it off, the man was drugged or something, and hobbled onward. A stiff breeze began to blow, and an odd noise, perhaps an alarm of some kind sounded behind him. John lifted his head in alarm.

When he turned around, both the man and the old fashioned call box were gone.

John cleared his voice roughly. "Dreams are getting worse then," he muttered. He rounded a bend, limped over a small hill, and almost (but not quite) didn't recognize the man running excitedly after him, his old pal Mike Stamford.


	2. Chapter 2

John sighed and passed his hand over his face as he hobbled out of St. Barts. Sherlock Holmes, eh? Definitely a character. Possibly dangerous. Not really a good remedy for an ex-army doctor just back from Afghanistan who was probably suffering from some form of PTSD. Still, becoming flat mates didn't necessarily mean he was going to instantly become best pals with the fellow. Flat shares often worked out that way; he'd end up keeping to his space, and Sherlock (What kind of name was that, anyway?) with his mad deductions, ridiculous curls, and harsh attitude would keep to his.

"Hello there John Watson!"

John sighed and turned around. He was beginning to lose count of the number of men he was 'just happening' to run into. Who next? Someone from his ruggers days? Stephen Bloody Hawking? Dr. Seuss?

When he clapped eyes on this bloke he was a little shocked. There was a red… thing, with a tassel perched jauntily on his head, and he was casually wearing a tweed jacket and maroon bow tie as if they were at the height of fashion. John leaned on a telephone pole and raised his eyebrows as the man bounced on the balls of his feet expectantly. "Hello" The man repeated, leaning forward as if about to impart a great secret.

"How do you know my name?"

The man looked momentarily confused, "I'm sorry, didn't I just run into you about an hour ago?"

"No."

The man smoothed his rather oddly shaped, rectangular chin as his forehead wrinkled in puzzlement, then opened his mouth in embarrassed shock. "Oh! I'm so sorry John, I forgot! Somewhere between then and now I regenerated. But you don't understand about that yet, so don't think too hard about it."

"Are you… are you saying you're the chap with the bum leg?"

The other man grinned and patted the appendage. "Was bum. Now it's fine! Bit like yours! Well, yours isn't fine. Yet."

John smiled as politely as he possibly could at this impossibility of a man.

"So, here you are. You're talking to me. Nice, fine, okay. Apparently you can look like two completely different people in the same afternoon, wear suits with converse shoes, and enjoy wearing…" He looked at the man's headgear, and pointed at it with his walking stick. "Is that a fez?"

"Yes! Fezes are cool!" The man seemed to be on the verge of giggling.

"Who put you up to this prank? I may me a little roughened up from the war, but I'm not a schizo, half out of his wits veteran you can poke fun at."

"Oh, this is no prank. It's actually very important. One of the most important things in the universe. " The Doctor looked at John seriously. "You're going to have to stop thinking of things in black and white John. Start thinking of things in shades of grey. And don't hesitate if you think you'll do some good."

John grimaced. "I've been through Afghanistan. I know what it means to think in shades of grey."

The Doctor gave a bark of laughter. "Well, yes, in terms of war. In terms of love your frame of reference is a little rusty." His eyes twinkled, and he gave a quick wink. "Cheerio then!"

John scowled. It was obvious the other man knew something he didn't . "I assume I'll be seeing you again, then?"

The Doctor said nothing, just slipped down a back alley. When John followed all he saw was a rapidly disappearing public call box.


	3. Chapter 3

"Time to choose a side, Doctor Watson…" The mysterious man in the three piece suit twirled his umbrella and began to walk away when he started at the sound of sneakers squeaking behind him.

The man with the umbrella turned and smiled over John Watson's shoulder. "Ah, I see you've made powerful friends already, Dr. Watson. I'm not sure if this is the right one for you, though Doctor. He's slightly dangerous for your taste, don't you think? He has a bit of a penchant for guns and war, and I know you generally consider yourself to be a pacifist."

John spun around, and rolled his eyes at the sight of The Doctor, the one with the converse shoes and the-bum-knee-which-was-no-longer-bum running across the warehouse floor. "Mycroft." The Doctor smiled, stretched out his hand which the other man limply took. "Don't worry… Anthea is it? I'll take him home."

John dropped his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. The Doctor slapped him on his good shoulder in a friendly manner. "Hey there John, how are you doing?"

"Terrible."

Mycroft grimaced and looked away, and the other man, The Doctor frowned. "Did Mycroft do something? What's going on John?"

"Look, it's been two days, and I've been stalked, threatened, and dragged around by how many men? Stamford, this Doctor, the other Doctor, this… man in a suit, and of course Sherlock, the man that you all seem so interested in, especially through me. What's so important about me anyway? I'm a broken down army doctor." Scowling, John slouched down, and started to limp towards the door.

"Where are you going John Watson?" The Doctor murmured.

"I need my gun. I have to get my gun."

Mycroft exchanged glances with the doctor whose lip twitched in mild distaste.

"And why do you need a gun, Doctor Watson?" Mycroft smirked.

"Because obviously he needs someone to protect him from you crazy lot. You're all fighting over him; because he's brilliant. Apparently I'm supposed to be something you can use to get to him. Well, okay, but I'm not, not yet. But, if you're going to blame me for something I haven't done yet before I do it, I might as well start doing it. Why not?" He gave a tight little smile. "I'm not good for much besides patching up wounds and fighting. I suppose I make a good fit with Sherlock Holmes, who seems to be an excellent strategist. I'd much rather have him using me than you lot."

"John. Before you go wandering off, come over here," The Doctor demanded, shoving his hands in his pocket.

John stopped and turned around. "I'm the one with a limp. You come here."

The Doctor smirked, bounced on the balls of his feet, and walked over to the army doctor. He put a hand on John's shoulder that John eyed suspiciously. "You really are amazing. Why choose him? Why indeed. And you're right, people are already using you to get to him. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't."

Flicking his tongue between his lips, John leaned into The Doctor. "Then stay away from us."

"Fascinating. It's 'us' now, is it?" Mycroft twirled his umbrella again, and fiddled with putting one of his feet in front of the other. "So much for encouraging you to choose your side. I can see quite clearly that you already have."

The Doctor grinned broadly.

John decided to forgo other forms of transportation and pay for a cab.


	4. Chapter 4

"SHERLOCK!" John shouted. The insufferable git was standing there, TOYING with a poisonous pill like it was a piece of candy, immaculate in his long black coat, blue scarf, and curls. The murderer, John assumed, in a brown cap and worn grey cardigan, was smiling with glee and talking to Sherlock, evidently convincing him because the detective took held the pill to the light with a thoughtful expression on his face and started to bring it to his mouth…

Without thinking, John pulled his gun up in one smooth motion, aimed, and fired, then dropped down beneath the window sill.

"Hello! Jelly Baby?"

John started and lept to the side a bit at the man sitting next to him, holding out a white paper wax bag.

"Errr, no thanks. I prefer licorice allsorts."

"Oh, you like the savories then?" The other man had a long, ridiculous scarf, a brown tweed trench coat and a wild fluff of hair. Thoughtfully he popped a yellow Jelly Baby into his mouth. "We should get out of here. Sherlock or the police will be here soon."

John let out a long breath through his nose. "I suppose you're The Doctor as well?"

"Yes! And it's nice to meet you. I haven't met you yet, but from what I understand you have met me! Isn't it delightful?"

"Not really, no." John sighed, and crawled towards the door, he supposed Sherlock would be studying the window closely. "I'm going back to the flat. Nice to meet you too."

"Hold up! Hey, slow down!"

The Doctor was crawled after him, and bounced up when they were through the door.

"I really don't think I want to know why you keep following me."

"Well, probably not."

John frowned. This Doctor seemed a bit more approachable than the other two. Naïve and a bit innocent. Their footsteps echoed through the hallway; as they neared the exit to the building John broke into a jog and the other man jogged after.

"Really though, you shouldn't go back to the flat yet! If you do, you'll miss him!"

John stopped as he exited the building. "What? I just shot someone! Granted, yes, he wasn't a very nice man, but what fool sticks around a crime scene after a murder?"

This Doctor grinned toothily. "There's only one person who would know that the small, slightly adorable Dr. John Watson is capable of shooting a man like that. And you want to be sure you can trust him, don't you? What better way than by waiting for him at the police tape and seeing if he'll turn you in?"

"And what if he does? I'd go to jail, wouldn't I?"

"They wouldn't put you in jail for that. The trial might be a little messy, but it would be sorted out in the end. Mycroft wouldn't have anyone connected with Sherlock Holmes arrested for murder. I'm not very politically inclined, but I can sort that out at least." The Doctor popped another Jelly Baby in his mouth (red this time), and patted John fondly on the head. "Sorry, must dash. Ta then!" And he jogged off into the night.

John hesitated. He certainly didn't want to risk an arrest or anything really on his record, but The Doctor had a point. And after being manipulated for what seemed to be the last 48 hours straight, he was curious to see if the great Sherlock Holmes would turn him in or not.

He paused to speak briefly to Sergeant Donovan as he approached the police tape, then repressed a giggle as saw Sherlock Holmes sitting on the back of an ambulance, plucking with mild irritation at an orange blanket around his neck. DI Lestrade approached him, looking fairly useless, and Sherlock began to rattle off what seemed to be another deduction. Those clear blue eyes swiveled around the police cars as he talked, and finally came to a rest on John.

This was it. John nervously looked away, then back again. Sherlock Holmes was staring at him as though he was the most interesting thing in existence and was waving Lestrade away, surrendering the orange atrocity to the medic.

Sherlock smelled warm and musky, and almost inexplicably John's knees buckled slightly as the detective stood just a little too close to him. "Good shot."

John blinked nervously. The admiration and almost sexual purr underlying those two words brought a hot flush to his cheeks.

"Yes. Must've been. Through that window…"

"Well, you'd know."

Carefully, precisely, John reached out and brushed Sherlock's jacket with the tips of his fingers. He wasn't sure exactly why he did it. The Doctor with the Fez had said something about embracing shades of grey, and John was fairly sure that this one was colored the soft downy grey of a morning dove. The detective looked down, a little startled at the physical contact, then smiled almost shyly.

A breath caught in John's throat. Was there anything in existence that he wouldn't do for that smile?


	5. Chapter 5

Well, almost anything. One thing he bloody well wouldn't do was sit in the line for one more minute at the chip and pin machine trying to scan lettuce into the register. He didn't even LIKE lettuce, and he was becoming rapidly sure that Sherlock wouldn't touch anything that wasn't toast, tea or coffee. Feeding Sherlock was a little like feeding a rather shy but vicious stray cat. For the most part meals went untouched, but when they were eaten it was a bit like watching a hungry tiger devouring its prey.

John stopped just short of kicking the machine as it chirped at him for the umpteenth time, when he felt a presence hovering behind his shoulder. The store worker who was supervising the chip and pin machines had exited several minutes before, dashing off to find a manager that John was betting would never arrive. John scowled, turned on his heels, and saw the fez-hat doctor without the fez (but still with the abominable tweed suit and bow tie) standing behind him with a mildly amused look on his face.

"Half a tick." He said, brandishing a long thin mechanical something with a green glowy bit at the end and aiming it at the offending piece of technology. After some cheerful chirping whirs and a few kicks of his own, The Doctor managed to get it in working order. There was scattered applause in the line behind John, and the army doctor blushed, but the Doctor clapped him on his shoulder, gave a little wink as if to say, come on now, buck up. John tried to be cross about him blowing through his life again, but it had been a couple weeks and there was something fundamentally silly about a man so young who would wear bow-ties to the grocery store, and chuckling to himself he practically bounced as he walked home, feeling a great deal better about the technological advances of mankind, and groceries in general.

OoOoOoOoOo

John whistled cheerfully up the stairs, smirked at his flat-mate, who was reading a book and looking fairly relaxed, and put the bags on the floor. When he was in a good mood, John was generally pro-active, though when he was in a bad mood he was a prime example of passive aggressiveness. "Come on Sherlock, didn't your mum ever have you put away groceries?" John said, shoving him up from the chair.

The other man scowled at John's good mood, and scrabbled around with his feet a bit, refusing to budge. There was a clink under the chair, and John glanced down, then let out a low whistle. "Why is there a sword beneath your chair, Sherlock?"

The detective frowned, and looked back at his book. "The case they offered me this morning came to a slight crescendo this morning. The assassin is on the plane home as we speak, however."

"Sherlock. You ordered me to go out and pick up groceries this morning. Are you telling me…"

"What? I couldn't have you risking your life again for me, could I? There was no need, and you're not used to defensive sword fighting; your gun may have gone off wild and hit someone." Sherlock met John's gaze with a modicum of defiance, as if daring the shorter man to object to his antics.

"That's… that's almost noble of you Sherlock. Thank you." John rested a hand on a bony shoulder, and was surprised when Sherlock tipped his head towards it slightly, his curls brushing against John's forearm.

John licked his lips and cleared his throat. "Never mind about the groceries. I'm sure I can manage today. Don't think you're getting out of them forever though."

The detective smiled into his book. "Wouldn't dream of it."


	6. Chapter 6

Sarah is fantastic! She is warm and sweet and alive and John wants to do so many things with her. So many things, like… like…

John sighs and squeezes his eyes shut. He sees a path forming in his mind that no longer makes sense, a map of evening spent on the couch in calm domestic bliss while a woman makes supper, polite pursed lip kisses in the morning, endless cups of tea. The thought of it is bewildering and wonderful one moment, and dark the next. He yearns for that life so heavily but he knows that life would be sterile, and he'd never feel the heat of the chase again, and he'd never feel Sherlock looming over him like some strange god.

But Sarah insinuates, and he insinuates back, and suddenly he has a date with a rather attractive woman. He can't help but to strut around the flat a bit afterward, and is relieved to have a break from this rather dreadful case that already has three people dead.

_I have a date, that's when two people who like each other go out and have fun._

_That's what I was suggesting. _

John feels the words "No you weren't" on the tip of his tongue but bites them back. It occurs to him that often, he really doesn't know what Sherlock is thinking. The incident with the sword has taught him that much at least. Instead, he glances away awkwardly, until Sherlock comes at him with a date suggestion, and he's so relieved that there hasn't been some kind of row (why would there be a row John? He's married to his work, and you are straight, aren't you?) that he jumps on the opportunity. A circus would be amusing, and Sherlock even calls for him; it's a bit like playing truth or dare as a child because Sherlock is watching him as if he's not quite sure if John is really going to pull this off. But John showers and changes and goes to pick Sarah up, leaving his flatmate with a smirk on his lips.

OoOoOoOoOo

Once he realizes it's actually a Chinese Circus, John starts to get the feeling that he's been had, and then of course Sherlock appears like a smartly dressed genie from a bottle. John almost wants to giggle at the blue scarf around Sherlock's neck. Blue. It seemed so silly and out of place sometimes; everything else about Sherlock was black and white and tall. But there it is, and Sarah looks a little bewildered and suspicious, and really, can John blame her? Thankfully, it seems that Sherlock's apparently borderline mad single-mindedness in comparison to John's… well… he'd like to think that it's common sense, has clued her into the fact that this trip is turning into a chore of him somewhat keeping after his flat mate rather than into a love triangle with the implication that John was having a torrid affair with the git.

Until of course, the stairs. John is trying to explain to Sherlock that one doesn't just turn dates into mad detective investigations when Sherlock leans down into him. "What's so important?" When suddenly a man is coming down the stairs and John just catches the glimpse of a pin stripe suit with converse before he thinks oh god here we go again and Sherlock is shoved, down the stairs and into John's mouth. Or at least, his mouth is on John's mouth, and really it doesn't turn into a kiss though oh god that man's mouth is soft and John lets out a brief "Hnng!" that isn't completely an objection before he shoves the taller man off him (who doesn't seem to be objecting too much either, though he's twisting around to see who it was who shoved him) and Sarah comes up the stairs behind them while they're both talking to each other:

"Did you see him John?"

"I thought I saw a bloke in a suit, but beyond that I'm not sure… (damned if I tell Sherlock I have a friend who can look like more than one person and occasionally pops up and spouts nonsense at me)" And he's not fully aware that he's still clinging onto Sherlock's arms and Sherlock has his hands on John's shoulders and is stroking them absent-mindedly, probably more from the energy of that great damnable brain of his than from affection, until Sarah clears her throat and gives them a pointed look.

It's equally damning on both their parts and Sherlock even looks mildly put out that she decides to stay. But she stays and she stays and it isn't until the end of the evening, when she's tied on the chair with an arrow pointing at her head and John is sees a flash of irritation on her face when the head of the Chinese mafia mentions that it is too bad that she hasn't managed to snag Sherlock's (who apparently is being played by John right now) pretty man companion instead, because maybe THAT would make Sherlock (John) talk.

And, at the end, when Sherlock (Late) finished untying Sarah after John fell on his face from knocking the bow and arrow out of the way and he looks up at her and says "Don't worry, next date won't be like this," two things happen simultaneously. First, Sarah lets out a sardonic bark of laughter, and John already knows he's lost, and second Sherlock says, with a particularly irritating amount of calm, "Oh John, any date we go on together will probably end up SOMETHING like this."

From this statement, John gathers that he has already won, but at the moment he's in too much of a strop to care.


	7. Chapter 7

John cradled his beer in the crook of his arm… at least he was fairly sure it was a beer, it tasted like a beer even though it was bright green and had a label on it that was in a language he had never heard of before… and trailed his feet through the rings of Saturn, looking with awe at the luminescent planet shining blue, green, red, orange, so ordinary, in every elementary textbook really, yet so exotic and strange. They were close enough that it filled his whole vision, and he was surprisingly homesick for the blue/green of earth. John had needed to get away, possibly, he had explained to the doctor, needed some kind of adventure, but he wasn't really sure.

The man in question appeared by his side. Tall, short hair this time, with a leather jacket. He looked much more put together than the other Doctors, but it was obvious they were still one and the same; he had the same child-like smile, the same enthusiasim for ordinary things which John was starting to realized we're really all that ordinary. "Banana? Great source of potassium!" The Doctor said, handing him the yellow fruit. After an evening of Sherlock shooting the wall and finding a human head in the fridge receiving a banana as he sat in the doorway of the TARDIS felt downright normal, so John accepted with a smile.

"Thanks mate."

The Doctor sat down next to hi. The TARDIS may be bigger on the inside, but the door never really grew, so his shoulders rubbed against the other mans as he took a sip of his so-called beer. The Doctor kicked a rock that was drifting under his feet, and it skittered off into the void.

"He's an arrogant prick." John said at last. "And really, quite mad. I don't know what you're on about, you keep blabbering things to me about love when I see you, and it has occurred to me that you're referring to him. But really? I don't see it. He's a force of nature, sure, but it's like being a dandelion in a hurricane. Most of the time he barely notices I'm there, and when he does it's just to pick me apart."

The Doctor sighed. "You're a good companion John. You know that? I've had countless companions, but they all end up leaving, or I leave them. Though I suppose what I never really found out is why they stay in the first place."

John pressed the palms of his hands against his eyes. "Companion, eh? What do you mean by that? Are you implying that Sherlock is one of you as well? He does act alien enough."

The Doctor gave a bark of laughter. "Oh no John. Sherlock's no Time Lord. I suppose companion does have slightly different connotations that it does on earth, but it describes fairly accurately what you are to him. You are 'the person who comes along and doesn't leave.' Though most of them do, in the end. Leave that is. Is that what you want to do now?"

John raised his eyebrows, it was the first time the Doctor had named his species. "I suppose companion does sort of describe me then, yeah. I mean, look at what you offered. All of time and space, and all I want to see is the solar system. I didn't even really want to leave London, exactly. But the offer you made was sort of hard to refuse."

John cocked his head, looking past Saturn, and out at the stars beyond. "We really are just specks, aren't we? Maybe that's why he deleted this. Maybe he can't stand not being significant."

The Doctor gave a broad smile. "Perhaps. And I think you might be thinking about the love bit of it too much, John. After all, does it really matter whether you love him or not? Is he going to change much depending on whether you leave or stay?"

"Of course it matters! My feelings are involved too, you know. It's like having a child really, a big git of a child who thinks he can do whatever he wants. But not really, he's not a child, he's a grown man who doesn't know a damn thing about simple kindness, but he knows practically everything about everything else. And I suppose my job is to help him understand kindness. But it's not easy. It would be nicer if he would just talk to me instead of shoving me aside and sulking on the couch."

The Doctor leaned against the door frame. "I never let myself love my companions. I could never say anything. Why would I? They all die so quickly, even if they stay."

John gave a tight smile. "Is this a sympathy thing then? You can't fall in love, so you make it so some other poor bloke does? Maybe you should just let yourself love for once, even if she dies. Then you'll at least know you were good for something."

"It's not just sympathy, why I'm doing all this. It's much bigger than that." The doctor hesitated. "I don't know if I can remember what it's like to just love. After the war I was in, I think any reason to love again just sort of broke apart. I haven't had another companion since before the war, and I'm not sure if I want one. It always gets so complicated."

John smiled. "You were a soldier then? I thought there was a reason I could relate to you."

The Doctor gave a small smile, and touched John's bad shoulder gently. "Not as good a soldier as you. I ran. I did a lot of killing, but in the end I ran."

John sipped his 'beer'. "I probably should start running. But it's like a magnet, you know. I feel like I'm the only person in the world who cares enough about his massive intellect to protect him."

He sighed and absently checked the BBC news on the strangely normal looking mephone the doctor has lent him for the evening, which can apparently send signals across space and possibly time. His eyes widen at the headlines and the pictures of the gutted houses on Baker Street. "Oh shit. I have to get back."

OoOoOoOoOoOoOo

"Sherlock! Are you all right?" Glass shards everywhere, but the man's dressed, and looking more put together than he has in the past week. Probably it has to do with Mycroft, who is sitting in John's chair with an air of disdain.

Sherlock looked over at John with his usual sweeping arrogance, then did a small double take, frowning. "Why on earth were you sleeping in a bunk-bed John?"

Mycroft raised his eyebrows and looked over as well. John shifted uncomfortably under the gaze of both the Holmes brothers. "Top bunk, too." Mycroft said.

Sherlock stood up, walked over to John, and walked around him slowly. "Last night you left the flat because I was in a strop. You walked, but not far, you were picked up by a friend but not in a car. You consumed a banana and it looks like you passed the time by kicking rocks, but not rocks covered in soil so it must have been… at a quarry? You also consumed one… no two alcoholic beverages." Sherlock leaned in carefully and sniffed John's breath. "No, wait, was that alcohol? You have a slight hangover, but that does not smell like alcohol. And you slept on a bunk bed, which means it was not in a hotel, which means you must have stayed the night at your friend's house and he probably has two children. However, since you were able to stay with him over night, it implies he has only limited custody of said children."

Sherlock stopped, then frowned. "I… no. That's not right."

John chuckled. "No, it's not. Well, you got a good deal of it right, but not the last bit, and not the quarry."

Sherlock stared intently at John, and put his hands on his shoulders, his eyes glaring, darting over his friend's face. "I don't like not knowing where you were." Sherlock says slowly. It's a fact, not an accusation, as if Sherlock is suddenly starting to understand something about himself.

John felt his pulse fluttering in his throat as he swallowed, mouth dry. Sherlock's face was ridiculously close, and he could smell warm tea on his breath. The detective had looked arrogant and sure of himself just moments before, but now he was oddly vulnerable, as if he was unsure of John's destination and didn't know whether he had it in himself to start following someone.

"It's a funny story, I'll tell you later," John said, smiling and reaching out to touch Sherlock's suit jacket, to reassure the taller man that despite his journey into the realms of the irrational he was firmly back on solid ground, in London. "I'm glad to be back, though."

Sherlock gave an exaggerated frown of disapproval to conceal his relief, and walked back to his chair. "So, Mycroft, how's the diet?"

Mycroft glanced slyly at John, a knowing smile on his face. "Fine, Sherlock, thank you. Now about those Bruce Partington Plans…"


	8. Chapter 8

(I AM BACK after a long absence. My writing is a little rusty as it has not been in use very much. I hope you still enjoy!)

It had been a game, a vaguely amusing one even, until John Watson walked out of the swimming pool changing room and started talking in Moriarty's voice, throwing everything Sherlock knew on his head. Sherlock couldn't remember the last time he had felt so surprised, and… and then, the redhead strode into the room flipping her hair over her shoulders. She turned on her heels and flashed Sherlock a quick smile as she crossed her arms.

"Hello," She said, raising her eyebrow, "I'm assuming that is a gun in your pocket and this isn't turning you on in any way." She bounced on the balls of her feet and pursed her lips.

Sherlock blinked quickly, pale eyes taking in the cock of her head and confident (overconfident?) attitude. He inhaled quickly and pulled out his gun but made no motion of cocking the barrel. "Depends on your definition of 'turned on'," he growled. John flinched, and Sherlock glanced at him, then swung his head back to who he was beginning to suspect was Moriarty. It was a little odd, the criminal's style had suggested male rather than female, but he couldn't afford to quibble at the moment.

John pushed back the coat with trembling hands, and Sherlock saw the flashing lights and the semtex. A bright red dot flew over the walls of the room and landed on his chest.

"I have the Bruce Partington Plans," Sherlock said, his mouth going dry. He held the thumb drive above his head. "I assume this is what you want. Moriarty, is it?"

The red-head rolled her eyes and brushed her hair away from her face. "Uh, no. Well, I suppose I'm Moriarty right now, but you can call me Amy. Who the hell is Bruce Partington anyway?"

Sherlock blinked. Surely the criminal master-mind would at least be aware of the existence of the plans to Britain's weapons system?

Amy scuffed her shoe against the tile of the floor. "And why the hell do we have to meet at a swimming pool. Is this supposed to be dramatic or something?" She hesitated, and then tapped at something in her ear. John frowned and looked to Sherlock, and then back at Amy. Even Sherlock was confused. Either this girl was NOT Moriarty, or she was going out of her way to convince him that she wasn't, which made very little sense. This was the big showdown for god's sake. John was in a green coat with fur that didn't suit him at all with blinking lights and enough plastic explosives to make the scar on his shoulder look as though the gun in Afghanistan had been trying to give him a goodbye kiss.

"Oh! Right! Carl Powers. Yeah, thanks." Amy grinned, apparently updated on information. "There is way too much testosterone in this building to suite me. All right. Yes, I am a criminal master mind. I'd laugh evilly but I think you get the general idea. And I have you and John here hostage. I'm about to blow you up, so I'm sure you're all very frightened. You know, that's the most rubbish death threat I've ever heard," she said, suddenly talking over John and Sherlock's shoulder. Another red laser point flashed around John's chest, squiggling in a whimsical fashion.

"Interesting," Sherlock murmured. "She's a hostage herself. But why would a hostage critique her captor?"

John didn't dare open his mouth, but his expression was turning skeptical. He was looking in the same direction as the girl, straining to see who she was talking to, but any accomplices were well hidden in the shadows.

"Oi, Stupid-face! Make sure he's holding it steady. I don't fancy this stand up getting out of my hands and poodle boy down here shooting me. No offense," She turned to Sherlock, "But your hair is REALLY curly. How long do you take with it in the morning?"

Sherlock looked a bit peeved, and straightened his shirt with one hand, but didn't respond.

The girl sighed. "Okay, okay, okay. Now, here I am, about to blow you to pieces. You may both talk. Do you have anything to say to each other before you go?"

Both Sherlock and John looked at her skeptically. The whole hostage situation was beginning to look decidedly less scary than irritating. In the quiet, John carefully began to unbutton his jacket, trying not to make any sudden movements that would draw Amy's attention to him. His arm was out of his sleeve before Amy noticed.

Amy crossed her arms and looked up over Sherlock's head again. "Boys! I need back up!"

"Coming wife!" Something splashed into the pool, probably about the size of a fist. Come to think of it, John had heard that sound before.

There was a split second before his soldier instincts set in. "Grenade!" he yelled. He tore off his semtex vest, tossed it toward the water, and took a running jump at Sherlock, shoving him down and covering him with his body. Sherlock tensed and went very, very still, bracing himself for the explosion.

"I love you," he murmured into his madman's ear before…

Nothing.

John rocked backwards, looking frantically around the room. "Shit!" he hissed, as he realized there was no-one there.

Sherlock slowly stood up, straightening his suit jacket. "As I suspected," he said, triumphantly, "a bluff. Not a very clever one, either, though the kidnapping and the vest did have you fooled, John."

John stood, and stumbled before kneeling again. His breath was coming out in quick gasps. Why was Sherlock scratching his head with a gun? The idiot hadn't even heard what John had said, did he? Well, it was probably for the best. Nutter probably wouldn't know love if it bit him in the round cushy arse.

The gun rooted around the detective's curls a little more vigorously, and finally Sherlock cleared his throat. "By the way. That thing you did. And said. It was. Good."

John looked down at his feet blushing. "Right. Okay. Ta then. Good thing nobody heard me. Me, saying I love you, in a darkened swimming pool. People might talk."

The assertion rang empty, and Sherlock gazed at him blankly for a moment before he gave a crooked smile. "People do little else."


End file.
